She seeks a childhood face
along the East Bank, diverted and spilled onto 

an empty road, old railroad
tracks framing its riverside. 

That this widening band of water flowing south
could be the same river 

as the tiny channel
she waded through yesterday up north, 

that this unsalted navigational pulse
could reckon with her North Atlantic bias 

could all be a signal 

calling her to pause here 

behind a brick building in an old rail yard
(only a slice of river visible) to see how 

no other word, even in this midst,
besides saudade will do.